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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29660628">Shiver (Heatwaves - George's POV)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninanuina/pseuds/ninanuina'>ninanuina</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Fluff and Smut, Based on a Glass Animals Song, Confessions, Dreams and Nightmares, Flirting, George's POV, Hot Weather, Internal Conflict, M/M, POV Second Person, Pining, Secret Crush, Separations, Slow Burn, Unrequited Lust, brighton boy is freezing, george is not a dense sweetie, you know when you hear a song and it fits so perfectly you listen to it 30 times in a row?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:35:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,521</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29660628</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninanuina/pseuds/ninanuina</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my take on the beautiful story <i>Heatwaves<i> from George's POV. I loved the original and couldn't get enough of it. If there is anyone out there feeling the same way, I think this should be good for them.</i></i><br/><span class="small"><br/><i> All this back-and-forth, this innocent teasing; he has gotten used to it by now. He knows the moves of the game. He jokes when Dream jokes. He strikes only if Dream does first. It's entertainment. A meaningless, platonic love affair.</i><br/><i>Yet his mind dwells. He knows it now. His mind lingers waiting for a dream to last.</i><br/><i>It is tiring to navigate the mazes of their interactions with Dream. He grows vary of keeping balance, minding not to fall into a trap with each step. Yet he walks on. There must be an abstract reward to all this, something that feeds his soul — he doesn’t know what. He only knows that it doesn’t bother him anymore.</i><br/></span></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream &amp; GeorgeNotFound &amp; Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF) - Relationship, Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF) - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            [Restricted Work] by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/tbhyourelame/pseuds/tbhyourelame">tbhyourelame</a>. Log in to view.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <span class="small">Hello friends :)<br/>To be honest I am not a good dnf fan. I love them but do not watch the streams regularly. I read Heatwaves and fell in love with the writing.<br/>But while I was reading, I kept imagining what George’s feelings would be, how would be reacting to everything that was enfolding in the story; especially with the ending, I was more and more intrigued with the untold parts of the story. So, I decided to write my own version from George’s POV.<br/>I hope you enjoy it!<span class="small"></span></span>
</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The chair creaks slightly as he leans back. With the movement, he becomes aware of the gentle chill in the air. It is almost noon but it had rained last night so the weather is light and breezy. The air in his lungs feels less dense.</p><p>He didn’t sleep much last night. His eyes tear up when they suddenly catch the artificial brightness of the screen.</p><p>He makes a move to shut the monitor down only to see his sad and tired reflection on the vacant darkness of the glass. He draws near the empty screen to study his face.</p><p>
  <em>Seeing you was nice.</em>
</p><p>The way that Dream’s voice echoes within his brain so lucidly makes him shiver. His mind is a home for all he does: all the nuances of his tone, all his compliments, his jokes, even the way he breathes. His mind feels... crowded at times.</p><p>
  <em>George’s face does get me excited.</em>
</p><p>He must be joking George thinks. The possibility that this face could excite anyone is beyond his comprehension. Especially after yesterday’s sleepless night.</p><p>He leans even further in the chair. He knows he won’t be able to sleep here and he knows he shouldn’t — but the velvety breeze and the sounds of summer in his room entice him. For the smallest moment he gives up to the allure of sleep and closes his eyes, but then he quickly straightens up, opens the screen and puts music on shuffle hoping that it would disperse the suffocating drowsiness. He wants to start working on the coding for the chess stream.</p><p>The music starts in synchrony as he slides his chair closer to the screen and opens up the tab.</p><p>As the beat drops, he inadvertently chuckles to the cruelty of his fate. He drops his head on the keyboard in utter despair. The chorus sings as he listens with eyes closed.</p><p>
  <em>Sometimes, all I think about is you<br/>
Late nights in the middle of June<br/>
Heat waves been faking me out<br/>
Can't make you happier now</em>
</p><p>He knows that he isn’t going to be sleeping tonight. He rubs his face and grabs his phone.</p><p>He is at war with his mind. It has been like this for a while. <em>It has been like this since he met him. </em></p><p>Until last night, he thought that he had won, that he was out of the woods.</p><p>But the dream crept up on him. The warm honeyed hug of something so familiar, so easy. His mind was so acquainted with the vision that he almost forgot it was unreal and improbable. It felt so <em>close<em>.</em></em></p><p>It made him realize that his hopeless yearning is always looming in his subconscious, with a finger on the trigger, aiming at his grip on reality, waiting for the right time to shoot at him in the gullible depths of sleep.</p><p>He is at war with his mind. It has been like this for a while and for tonight, he surrenders. He sends the song to Dream, desperately hoping that he would take it as a joke. His hand clasps the collar of his hoodie, as he knows somewhere deep down in his consciousness he wishes for the opposite.</p><p>Determined to get at least a little work done before his body caves in to sleep, he brews some coffee. As he works, the light in his room changes from morning yellow to rosy red in the afternoon. He stretches and texts Sapnap to ask him if he can help test the gameplay. He kind of wishes that he won’t answer so he could have an excuse to call it a day and go sleep.</p><p>Yet his phone immediately vibrates with a text from him. This is not his day.</p><p>They play around some mechanics for a while. George tries his best to keep focus. Despite acting unconcerned on the outside, Sapnap is surprisingly good at discerning the exhaustion in his voice.</p><p>“You sound tired,” he says as they close the server. Not a question, just an observation.</p><p>“I couldn’t sleep last night.” A pause. He continues with sincere worry, “Was it obvious during the stream?”</p><p>“Nah, I don’t think so.”</p><p>“Good,” George yawns, “I think I’ll go have a nap now.”</p><p>“Yeah, go get some sleep.”</p><p>He is just closing the chat he hears Sapnap’s voice again.</p><p>“Nothing’s wrong right?”</p><p>“No, no.”</p><p>“You are not actually mad about today?”</p><p>“Today?” George asks. It is a genuine question. But it doesn’t take long before he remembers what Sapnap’s referring to. Dream and Sapnap teased him today and he acted angry but it was just banter. “Of course not,” he answers before Sapnap can say anything. “It doesn’t bother me anymore.”</p><p>“Ah, Georgie you really are angry.”</p><p>“No, I told you I’m fine,” he says. He means it but his voice sounds angrier than he intended to. He starts to believe maybe he <em>is</em> angry.</p><p>“But you’ve said <em>anymore</em>. Like you've given up."</p><p>He can hear from his tone that Sapnap is still half joking. He wants him to let go of the topic and just let him go to sleep. He wants to brush it off but he doesn’t know how to do that without seeming insincere.</p><p>In truth, what he means is exactly what he said. The mockery of Dream's teasing is a hurt that he is not willing to let go. He holds on to it. He has gotten used to it. It doesn't bother him anymore.</p><p>All this back-and-forth, this innocent teasing; he has gotten used to it by now. He knows the moves of the game. He jokes when Dream jokes. He strikes only if Dream does first. It's entertainment. A meaningless, platonic love affair.</p><p>Yet his mind dwells. He knows it now. His mind lingers waiting for a dream to last.</p><p>It is tiring to navigate the mazes of their interactions with Dream. He grows vary of keeping balance, minding not to fall into a trap with each step. Yet he walks on. There must be an abstract reward to all this, something that feeds his soul — he doesn’t know what. He only knows that it doesn’t bother him anymore.</p><p>How to tell all this to his poor guileless friend?</p><p>“It used to,” he unravels.</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>He has given up. If this is what he needs to do to get some sleep soon, he’ll do it.</p><p>“When we first met I had a thing for Dream, y’know?” He speaks as if it’s nothing. Sleep befuddles him, he talks as if he is intoxicated, tripping over his words as they slip quickly off his mouth. “I really don’t know what it was exactly, but I felt some... kind of way, I guess... Something more than friends.” He waves his hands around as if to silence himself.</p><p>“It didn’t last long.” <em>Lie<em>.</em></em></p><p>“I don’t feel that way anymore.” <em>Lie<em>.</em></em></p><p>“It went away completely.” <em>Lie. Lie. Lie<em>. </em></em></p><p>“I’m glad it did, it’s better this way,” he says finally, he is nauseated by his own dishonesty. He can almost hear Sapnap’s mouth agape. What’s done is done, he is too tired to regret anything. “Hey, look, I really should get some sleep now.”</p><p>“O-okay." Sapnap stutters.</p><p>"Talk to you tomorrow.”</p><p>“Tomorrow.”</p><p>He takes off his hoodie leaps inside the duvet. In between wakefulness and sleep, he listens the songs of skylarks and the voice of seagulls. He will fight another day. He drifts off to sleep knowing full well where his imagination will wander.</p><p>He opens his eyes inside his car. His hands are on the wheel but the car is not moving. He is parked on the curb side watching puffy white clouds and blue sky. He knows he needs to get out but he also knows the more he took his time the longer the dream would last. So, he waits. Anticipation simmers in his soul, his fingers tap on the feel. He can no longer endure. He exits the car and walks into the building.</p><p>His legs are almost numb with excitement. Weirdly, as he makes his way to greet this unknown traveller, it feels like this is his own safe homecoming. The airport is empty. A whizzing sound from the circling baggage carousel is the only sound heard. He wishes it to last a little longer. The waiting of it... the suspense. But soon the baggage drops on the belt, bright green. He draws near to reach for it.</p><p>A hand appears next to his. He breathes in his air, fresh rain and sandalwood.</p><p>He knows who he is. <em>He knows who he is<em>.</em></em> He just does.</p><p>“I am waiting for you,” his dream-self speaks. The misery of his consciousness kills him. 'I am', he says even in dreams, not 'I was'.</p><p>He lifts his head to look up to him.</p><p>He sees his smile. He doesn’t. But he does.</p><p>He holds his hand. He doesn’t. But he does.</p><p>He hears his sunny voice dripping in gold. His presence quivers next to him. They talk, walking hand-in-hand, aimlessly in between the carousels. The conversation is no longer a maze. It’s a field of tottle grass and wild flowers, it is an ocean shore extending as far as eyes could see. There are no traps, no tricks, no games. Words are tinted with warmth, curiosity, and coyness; but never with deceit. It is honest. <em>Easy and honest<em>. </em></em></p><p>“I’m happy.” He says as honest and real as a dream can be.<br/>
Dream stops in his steps, their connected hands forces George to turn to him. <em>As if he needed forcing...</em> He knows what’s going to happen. He knows as it happened before. He waits for him and he burns. Dream’s arms wrap around him. He lets it happen. As his cheek rests on his chest, the space between their bodies disappear. George does not dare look up.</p><p>He is happy to be with him. He is his friend. But this... This is not enough.</p><p>He feels his mouth on top of his head. Dream’s warm breath tingles between his hair.</p><p>He senses one of Dream’s arms entangling. As he backs away the air that fills the space between them freezing his aflame skin. Fingers lift up his chin. He cannot see Dream’s face. He does not need to. Lips brush against the skin just below his hair. He kisses his forehead.</p><p>Then the corner of his eye. Then his cheekbone.</p><p>George takes the smallest step towards him, closing the gap between their lower bodies. He can’t stand the coldness of separation.</p><p>Their breaths are heavy and wet.</p><p>“I just want you to want me,” he hears himself whisper. <em>How miserable<em>.</em></em></p><p>His soft lips finally draw near his own. The kiss is gentle. George’s heart stutters, his hand cling to the back of Dream’s sweatshirt. There is a pause. Dream’s hands are still there, tangled in his hair and resting on his jaw; but silken touch of lips is gone. The air in George’s lungs escape his mouth in a muttered sound desperation. <em>Miserable<em>. </em></em>The sound stirs movement, lips crash into him. He loses himself in the sensation.</p><p>Then — something falls to the ground and brakes into pieces. They become undone in a haste and look over at the shattering on the floor. It is ceramic smashed to smithereens. George knows he can see him now. He knows he shouldn’t look but ... <em>he can see him now</em>. He has to see, he wants to see. He gives into temptation. He shifts his gaze to his face and wakes up.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Shiver</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <span class="small">Dream is always honest with George. And George is honest with Dream for the first time. <span class="small"></span></span>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <span class="small">Hello friends :)<br/>Thank you for all the support on the last chapter and sorry for not uploading sooner I was writing a thesis.<br/>Anyhow, here is the second chapter, it is much longer, hope you’ll like it!<br/>Also, quite in line with the Heatwaves tradition, I was heavily inspired by a song while writing the chapter. It’s “Shiver” by Coldplay. It’s an old song and I have no idea why I suddenly got hooked in it. But give it a listen if you want to, it pairs well with the chapter.<br/>Lots of love — I’ll be uploading a new chapter soon I promise! <span class="small"></span></span>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He knows he shouldn’t look but <em>he can see him now</em>.</p>
<p>He can see him now. His curious gaze shifts to Dream’s face inadvertently. He is blinded by a light that explodes then disappears.</p>
<p>In a weird way, though still asleep, he knows he is about the wake up. He has seen this dream so many times, daydreamed even, that by now it is almost a part of his reality. The line between the real and the dream is thin; it is easy to cross back to wakefulness, even easier to slip into the fantasy. He opens his eyes slowly.</p>
<p>He lies there for a while, scared to start the day. Usually when he feels like this he takes his phone and fidgets, going through the social media feed, watching other people stream; but now as he lay comfortably underneath the duvet, the flashes of his conversation with Sapnap also trouble his mind. He analyses his own words, the tone of his voice. Best course of action, he decides, is to act like nothing had happened. After all, he knows Sapnap is not the one to blabber about such a thing. Teasing and joking is one thing but this... He wouldn’t bring this up, would he?</p>
<p>Would he?</p>
<p>He should’ve warned him not to tell anyone about it.</p>
<p>But that would have been excessively dramatic. Right? That would have made it serious. Now, it was nothing, it was just a fleeting thing. He spoke so nonchalantly, so easily about it with Sapnap. Now, it was easy.</p>
<p>He tosses around inside the duvet then hides under it completely.</p>
<p>He thinks: Maybe if Sapnap believes it, <em>he himself can believe it as well</em>. It will be true. It will be nothing. It will be easy. Maybe then, he will stop dreaming about him.</p>
<p>Desire is draining all energy in him — <em>he doesn’t even know his face</em>. He wriggles in fury. It should be him. George should be the one who is faceless. What good is a face if Dream is going to just see through it?</p>
<p>He crawls out of bed. He woke up late, spent an hour lying awake. It’s already past noon. The day is at its brightest and warmest. He showers, makes some quick breakfast and heads straight to the computer.</p>
<p>But it does not last long before the weather turns. By the time he starts the call with his friends, his neck and shoulders, cold and wet from the water dripping from his hair, start to shiver with the afternoon breeze. He gets up to close the window, but that’s not enough. He takes a sweater and puts it on; catching himself gussying up in the mirror awkwardly.</p>
<p><em>Miserable</em>. He is miserable.</p>
<p>In dreams and in reality — not that he can separate the two anymore — this is what he is: just miserable. He hates himself for it. Because he had it so good, he was doing what he wanted to, it worked, people liked it, he liked it. He was with friends. He had fun.</p>
<p>However, a human soul is spawned of greed. If you wish for something more, if you dream for something better even once — just once — then <em>good</em> ends up being no longer enough.</p>
<p>First he noticed him. He was there; unknown, full of light and promise. He was curious of him. As he started to get to know him, he realized that he noticed him more than anyone else: it was his voice that stuck with him, his words that he turned over in his mind. He liked him. He liked him just a little bit better than everyone else. He wanted more of him. Then he started collecting him: he started remembering things, he knew his schedule, what he enjoyed, what ticked him off. His mind became a home for all he did: <em>all the nuances in his tone, all his compliments, his jokes, even the way he breathes</em>. He did it to himself, he opened all the doors and invited him in.</p>
<p>His mind, however, wanted revenge for this welcome invasion. His mind took Dream’s compliments and made him ponder, “What if he really meant it?” It took his voice, the way he breathed and made him imagine, “What if he whispered your name?”</p>
<p>Then came the dream — not all of a sudden, not as a surprise — just like the thought of him, slow and unfeigned. He wondered at first if they would ever see each other? Would he come over to see him? What would George do? He would pick him up of course, show him around maybe. What would they say to each other? What would his voice sound like without the intermediary disruption? What would he smell like? He would smell like fresh rain and sandalwood obviously. What about his hands? The way he touches, the way he holds, hugs, embraces... Then he dreamt of his kiss and knew then —too late — that he was in trouble.</p>
<p>It was his doing. Completely his fault. So much so that it pained him just how oblivious Dream was. He felt as if he was taking advantage of his closeness. He was afraid, above everything, to upset him, to drive him away, or worse to offend him. The thought of losing Dream terrified him. He treaded a thin line between protecting what he had and wishing for so much more. Then he started to lie and deceive. He started feigning indifference and he hated his dishonesty more than anything. Dream did not deserve it; his thoughtful and kind friendship deserved more than George’s greedy, self-serving deceit. He knew that. Unlike him, he knew that Dream was always honest with him.</p>
<p>Now he stands there, nervousness mixed with his disdain for himself. He shakes off his head trying to disperse the thoughts. He is set to have fun today. He has to relax. He needs a restful night or else the lack of sleep is going to drive him mad.</p>
<p>He slumps down on the chair. He feels slightly calmer as Luca softly tosses her head to his feet, he reaches down to pet her, takes a deep breath and opens the Discord chat as usual. His friends’ voices draw him to reality and away from his fantasy. When Dream finally joins in the air in his lungs gets slightly heavier but he doesn’t forget how to breathe like he did last time.</p>
<p>His voice, George notices, is duller than usual. <em>He is tired</em>, he thinks but it sounds like something other than tiredness. He knows because he too is exhausted. Dream seems almost reluctant as he passes over to the chess stream. An irrational urge to just cater to him and do whatever he wants to do surges in George for a split second. He shuffles in his chair trying to give up the idea.</p>
<p>He moves in small circles around the field. Bad joins him as Sapnap jumps towards the chessboard. The board looks good from a distance, he is proud.</p>
<p>“Might have been a bad idea to let him play,” Bad fake whispers right when Dream joins in.</p>
<p>“No, George normally beats me,” he hears Dream say. Sapnap laughs. “That might be the first time you’ve admitted that George is better than you at something.”</p>
<p>“That’s not true,” George says as he hops on the board, then continues almost talking to himself, “Dream is honest with me.”</p>
<p>“But he still hasn’t given you a face reveal,” Sapnap’s teasing feels dangerous as George remembers their recent conversation. They had texted over at the group chat all day, George was happy that he didn’t make it a big deal. He also felt slightly pleased with himself, thinking that he had been successful in his offhanded, casual deliverance. But keeping up the cool act is not easy when he fears every word that may come out of his friend’s mouth.</p>
<p>He runs around in block flowers as he attempts to visualize Dream’s face, “I’m not going to try and force Dream to do anything. Though I am waiting for the day I open a Snapchat he’s sent me and it’s of his face.”</p>
<p>Dream laughs nervously. “I’m too pretty. I’d break your mind.”</p>
<p>“Oh please,” George says, a half-grin forms on his face, “didn’t we learn from my stream yesterday that it’s the other way around?” <em>We’re back to the usual</em>, he thinks merrily.</p>
<p>“Yes, we did,” Dream mumbles, his voice unusually soft. Laughter erupts, he continues, this time with determination, “George, you are beautiful.”</p>
<p>His heart skips despite knowing that it’s meaningless banter, he attempts to end it, “Oh my god. You’re annoying.”</p>
<p>“You can dish all you want but the second I turn it around—”</p>
<p>“Yeah, that’s so true. George gets so uncomfortable.” Sapnap says which sends him into panic mode.</p>
<p>“I don’t,” he intervenes.</p>
<p>“You do,” Dream says. He readies himself for another rebuff when he the warm, honeyed voice sizzles in his ears. “It’s okay,” Dream says in an undertone, “you’re so cute.”</p>
<p>He allows himself for a minute to believe in — <em>cherish in</em> — the sincerity of his silvery words.</p>
<p>“I should really start muting you,” he utters when he restores his composure.</p>
<p>“Right...so, should we try to use this thing?” Sapnap says, he must have heard it too.</p>
<p>He shows his work off to his friends, feeling like a kid. Dream is kind to him, as always, and compliments the work he has done. He tries not to worry too much about impressing him. Messing around the server and preparing for the stream keeps his mind occupied and somehow dispels the distracting thoughts. When they finally got to playing on stream, his attention is divided between playing the game, entertaining the chat and warding off Sapnap’s taunting.</p>
<p>He is so engrossed that when Dream says he is taking a break from the stream to make some food, George has almost forgotten that he had been there. He takes pride in his professionality but it does not last long before Dream shatters his confidence. He hears his murmur, his clatter over the unmuted microphone. He hums a happy tune. “Hi there lil’ girl,” he hears him talk with his cat softly. George can’t help but smile. At times like this, it feels like he is in the room with him. <em>In the room with him</em>, his mind cruelly repeats. “Dream, you’re not muted,” he warns.</p>
<p>With all his determination, he concentrates on the game. But his phone soon lights up with a text from Dream. He grins stupidly.</p>
<p>“Ooh, Dream sent me something,” George says. “Chat what do you think it is?”</p>
<p>His heart tingles with an absurd hope that it might be a snap of his face. <em>They’ve just talked about it.</em> Besides, it would be such a Dream thing to do if he were to send his face to George unprompted, out of the blue.</p>
<p>He opens the photo: <em>It is a fucking breakfast sandwich</em>. He reads the text: “bet you wished it was my face, didn’t you?” He lifts his gaze to the camera, knowing that Dream is watching him out there, his grin deepens. He briefly looks back at the text, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks.</p>
<p>He reassures everyone: “It was just his breakfast chat, calm down.” Yet he had already lost all focus. He still shivers despite the increasing warmth of his body.</p>
<p>He starts typing in return, trying not to reveal much to those watching. <em>A moment of hesitation.</em> Dream is always honest with me, he thinks. “The sandwich looks good, but I bet you look better,” he writes. Honesty wrapped in satire. It is the best he could do.</p>
<p>“George!” He yells. It’s jackpot. George suppresses a laugh.</p>
<p>It boosts his confidence. He crushes Sapnap on the chess board. He prepares to move the bishop. “Dream, help me!” Sapnap desperately appears.</p>
<p> “What am I supposed to do?”</p>
<p>“Distract George, I don’t know!”</p>
<p>He feels victorious, “That’s not going to work—”</p>
<p>“I had a dream about you,” Dream blurts.</p>
<p>His heart leaps out of his chest. He turns over at the Discord chat briefly, thinking he would be able to see Dream there. His grip on the mouse gives way, he doesn’t realize that he had placed the bishop down at the wrong tile.</p>
<p>
  <em>About me? He had a dream about me?</em>
</p>
<p>He ignores Sapnap’s screams in the background. “You what?”</p>
<p>“You were in my dream last night,” Dream says slowly. George slightly slumps back on his chair but then -he reminds himself quickly that the camera is on. Sapnap is delighted with the outcome.</p>
<p>“A cheap trick, shame on both of you,” George grunts. The chat is flooded with questions. He is relieved that people are curious so now he has a chance to ask, “The chat wants to know what the dream was.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Was it anything like his?</em>
</p>
<p>“You were in Florida and it was cool. I normally have a recurring dream about the beach we were at, but you showed up instead. You had your goggles on.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” he mouths inadvertently. There is nothing in Dream’s voice that lets him hold out hope.  <em>Of course not. Of course, it was nothing like his.</em> “Well,” he impels himself to continue the casual chat, “did I have a weapon?”</p>
<p>The stream ends. Sapnap leaves the call. George brushes his fingers against the back of his hair, still slightly damp but no longer shivering cold. He slouches on the chair and pulls his knees in. The silent hum of the call reminds him, he is not alone. The night is late, dark and balmy. He does not have that usual nerve-wrecking worry anymore, not when it’s like this. Not when it’s only two of them.</p>
<p>He trembles slightly but it doesn’t bother him.</p>
<p>There is an invisible line connecting them. He is on the other side of it, sweating under the sultry, sweltering heat of California. He envisions the parts of him that he knows of, he imagines him on his chair, waiting, listening with a gentle expectation. George savours the moment, <em>I have him all to myself</em>.</p>
<p>“The chat kept trying to make me ask you about your dream,” he finally says. He does this often when he wants to say something but can’t be so bold to say it straight out. He thinks he can avoid being dishonest like this, but he can also avoid saying ‘I want to know, I am curious about you, tell me everything.’</p>
<p>So instead, he just brings the subject up, baits him into speaking and the poor, naïve Dream falls right in. He is honest with him.</p>
<p>“There’s not much else to know,” Dream says.</p>
<p>George wants to say,<em> I want to know everything.</em> He wants to say, <em>I dreamt about you.</em> He wants to say, <em>I dream about you all the time. It changed everything for me. You change everything for me.</em></p>
<p>He puts his hands on the keyboard thinking he can type instead, just to say that he dreamt about him as well. “Nothing really happened," he hears Dream say and hesitates.</p>
<p><em>It was just a dream. It didn’t mean anything to him.</em> He feels selfish trying to extract a sense of self-satisfaction from his friend’s innocent dream. He urges himself to just talk with him, just hear what he has to say, help him if he needs it and be done with it.</p>
<p>“You mentioned that...I showed up instead,” he inquires, “Instead of who?”</p>
<p>“Oh,” George notices the hesitation in his voice. “Uh, well...me. Instead of me.”</p>
<p>“You? But I thought you were already there.”</p>
<p>“I...yeah. There’s normally two of me.” There is something in his voice, something that edges on fear. It reminds George once again of his selfishness. He hates himself for it. He rubs his eyes and speaks, carefully this time, “what kind of dream is it normally, Clay?” He wishes his voice to reach out and touch him with reassurance.</p>
<p>“A nightmare,” he mutters. “I’ve been having it for so long I’ve memorized every second of it. I wake up on the beach in the middle of the night; a lagoon with the edge of a forest about twenty feet behind me. I always have my mask on and I can’t see very well. Out of the tree’s shadows comes me—another me, except...his mask is covered in blood. He gives me a few seconds, and then…”</p>
<p>“Then what?” George spurs him on calmly.</p>
<p>Dream continues. His voice is fragile. “I run. As fast as I can, but it’s never fast enough. You know, dream logic. We fight. We always fight. Sometimes he stabs me, sometimes we drown, and sometimes I... I don’t run. I just stand there, and let him get me.”</p>
<p>“Do you...ever win?”</p>
<p>“Every once in a while. But then the next time I’m back there, I’m the one at the edge of the woods, seeing myself by the water,” he hears him exhale, “It’s fucked up.”</p>
<p>George doesn’t know what to say. All this time, he thought he had it bad. Selfish, uncaring. <em>Miserable</em>. But why — “why do you think I was there?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know, honestly, it took me by surprise, but when you were there it...wasn’t a nightmare anymore.”</p>
<p>He stops, sits up and leans into the screen. He didn’t want to admit but it gnawed at him that he was a part of something that haunted Dream. He couldn’t stand being a part of his suffering when dreaming of him was the most beautiful thing in George’s life. Dreaming of him was second nature to him and despite the feverish crave consuming his soul, George never once wanted to let it go.</p>
<p>“I’m not sure what to say to that,” George confesses. It is the truth.</p>
<p><em>It wasn’t a nightmare anymore.</em> He keeps repeating the words to himself. He repeats it so much that it loses its meaning, he asks to make sure, “I kind of feel like it was a compliment?”</p>
<p>The brief pause feels like a decade, then a light voice is heard: “It was.”</p>
<p>His lips curl into a smile. He puts his head on the table and closes his eyes; tasting, <em>drinking</em> his closeness. “Okay,” he says.</p>
<p>He puts over his hood. In complete darkness he once again lets the feigned memories reach out to him: Dream in the airport, Dream near him, Dream embracing him, touching him, kissing him. He finds it in himself to be honest, just once in his life.</p>
<p>“You know,” he says, “you were once in a dream I had, too.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Moses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Again, sorry for the late update. I am a horrible person for not updating for so long – I really don’t think I deserve all the love and attention you are showing to this but I appreciate it greatly. Thank you so much!<br/>I haven’t edited this yet – will do in the future – so sorry for the mistakes. Wanted to publish it before postponing any longer.<br/>Here is Chapter 3! I hope you like it; it has been quite a journey writing it – a good one.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You know,” he says, “you were once in a dream I had, too.”</p>
<p>“Really?” Dream’s voice rings with childish anticipation, buried within his hoodie George’s face brightens up with a warm smile. “I can hear your ego inflating right now,” he says just to tease him. He can tell every nuanced emotion in Dream’s voice by now. He can hear his tone sparking with careful curiosity, rather than pride.</p>
<p>“No, you can’t!” Dream protests. He leaves the cocoon of his hoodie and lifts his eyes as if he could see his face on the empty computer screen. The warm hug of his voice envelops him, he forgets, for a moment, all the secrets that he holds. It is always like this, when it is just two of them. The dream feels so real, the reality gets so blurred that it scares him. The bond between them heats and he shivers with their closeness. The passion he feels gives way to something just as warm, yet something frivolous, casual... normal.</p>
<p>“Yes, I can. I think you owe me some kindness for how you treated me on my stream today,” he says grinning.</p>
<p>“I owe you something?” Dream’s voice lowers, as he asks, “What exactly do you want with me?” his voice vibrates in somewhere lower than his ears, close to his chest. George tries to escape from the velvet reach of desire as he chuckles, “For you to be nice, chill... Freak.”</p>
<p>“You love me,” he continues, this time it is less provoking, louder; yet it doesn’t help. He mutters: “Come on, now.”</p>
<p>“Stop being weird,” George responds as if a cautioning his own body. He continues to tease him for the dream. George’s face flushes red. <em>He knows so little</em>, he thinks,<em> what if he knew more, what would he say then?</em> He buries his head back inside his hood.</p>
<p>He tries to threaten the boy on the other hand of the line with withholding the details about the dream yet he is weak against the boy’s teasing. “I think I won’t tell you, that’s a much better punishment for you being mean to me.”</p>
<p>“Oh...” Dream comments, obviously with the widest of grins, “... a punishment?”</p>
<p>He decides to hang up, he hears Dream’s protests but does it anyway.</p>
<p>His face is red inside the hood of his sweater, the lack of oxygen in the enclosed space makes his uneven breaths deeper and more hectic, there is a shiny and stupid smile on his face. Not leaving the sanctuary of the hood he slams his hands into the table with frustration: <em>He knows so little.</em></p>
<p>He gets up puts the music on and walks in circles around the room before deciding to plop himself on the bed. He does not know at what point the feeling took over his body. He does not know — not entirely — at what point he started to look for crumbs of affection in Dream’s scatter of words. Still, even now, just when he feels the familiarity of their friendship putting him at ease, just one remark, a slight change of tone pulls him back to the tingling suffocating weight of his dream. He hates it, he loves it.</p>
<p>Does Dream ever feels the same? He catches the words of the song on the shuffle ringing like an answer:</p>
<p>
  <span class="small">So, I look in your direction but you pay me no attention, do you?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="small">I know you don't listen to me ‘cause you say you see straight through me, don't you?</span>
</p>
<p>He goes over to his phone for some silence:</p>
<p>
  <span class="small">And I'll always be waiting for you</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="small">So you know how much I need you</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="small">But you never even see me, do you?</span>
</p>
<p>“Ugh,” he mutters. He should stop listening to music. It only makes it worse. He starts scrolling through Instagram as he once again lies on the soft duvet. This time half of his legs are dangling down. He had dropped the phone on his face several times while lying like this but he never learns, much like the music. He starts checking the spam of memes sent by Sapnap, then goes over to Twitter. There at the top of his feed he sees a Dream’s handle in a mention.</p>
<p>Dream had replied to a tweet questioning his mistake in the recent chess game. The memory flashes back to George. “<em>You were in my dream last night.”</em> His heart jumps like it’s the first time.</p>
<p>He clicks on the handle and visits Dream’s profile. There is a tweet: Never underestimate the power of a heat wave.</p>
<p>Petition to keep Dream’s AC broken for good, he replies aiming to just continue this childish banter and not much more. Then a ping.</p>
<p>He sees the notification appear at the top of the screen. A text from Dream:</p>
<p>
  <em>So you want to keep me sweaty?</em>
</p>
<p>Then it disappears.</p>
<p>He stops. Looks at his notifications once again, clicks once to expand the notification and read it again: <em>So you want to keep me sweaty?</em></p>
<p>He dares not click again. He dares not let Dream know that he saw the message. <em>So. You. Want. To. Keep. Me. Sweaty.</em></p>
<p>The phone drops on his face and smashes his cheekbone. He hates it. He never learns.</p>
<p>He takes the phone and shifts on the bed to lie on his stomach. Clicks on the notification again and opens the text. “You really don’t know anything.” He murmurs to himself. He must be going crazy.</p>
<p>“Yes”, he types. <em>How dare he?</em> He doesn’t think twice in fiery urge, “I like you better that way.”</p>
<p>He then releases the breath that he has just realized he’s been holding and lets his weight fall freely on the bed.</p>
<p>This twisted thing that he’s been playing at changed the meaning of everything in between them. The fantasy seeped into the reality and he cannot tell the difference anymore.</p>
<p>He does not know the difference between honesty and mockery anymore. The falsity, the pretence and the sarcasm had become such an integral part of his interaction with Dream that he almost feels like it corrupted something between them. Yet he cannot bear to tell the truth in all sincerity. The truth of what he feels is so dense with crude appetite that being honest feels more like a sin than lying.</p>
<p><em>He knows so little.</em> Whereas George feels, knows so much. It feels almost ... unfair.</p>
<p>But what about this? Isn’t this unfair? He looks at the text once again. Dream hadn’t replied.</p>
<p>
  <em>So you want to keep me sweaty?</em>
</p>
<p>Really Dream? <em>Sweat.</em> Now he’s thinking about it.</p>
<p><em>Heat. </em>Oh god. <em>Touch.</em> No.</p>
<p>No no no. He flings about his arms and legs to shake off the shiver, then goes to open up a window. Bad should be streaming soon, maybe he’ll hop on that. It’ll be a nice distraction, a productive one as well.</p>
<p>After a while his phone buzzes with a response. He had thought that he might not want Dream to reply, he thought he might hate it but, hell, who was he kidding?</p>
<p>“Hi”, he says.</p>
<p>“Hello,” George says right away.</p>
<p>“I missed you,” he says. I missed you, he says — that heartless bastard.</p>
<p>“I thought you were taking a nap or something.”</p>
<p>“I was watching a bird documentary.”</p>
<p>Come on now, is he doing this on purpose?</p>
<p>“That’s cute,” he says in all truthfulness.</p>
<p>“What are you up to?”</p>
<p>“Nothing really,” George texts. He asks whether he’ll be joining Bad’s stream which prompts the thought of hearing his voice, which then excites George, the feverish little fool he is.</p>
<p>“Computer so far away. Bed cold. Chair hot,” Dream writes back.</p>
<p>George waits. He needs to reply. But the words pass him. The words fog his mind. <em>Bed cold. Hot. Sweat. Heat. </em>Shiver. No! The image of Dream’s unknown face wrinkled in an expression of frustration, his long body sprawled over the cold duvet, the damp heat biting his skin, sweat dewing over his body, glistening...</p>
<p>No!</p>
<p>His eyes on the phone, his attention on him. The thought of his voice — he calls him.</p>
<p>“Hello,” George speaks first. Dream does not hear. “Hello,” he repeats.</p>
<p>“Hi,” he answers. <em>Is he nervous? No.</em></p>
<p>“I figured this was easier than texting,” George continues, he gives himself a pat on the back hearing the comfort in his own voice. But it feels comfortable anyhow — this unearthly friendship they have is both gentle and frenetic, both effortless and punishing.</p>
<p> “Okay, cool,” Dream responds, too blunt and unfeeling. <em>Is he nervous? No?</em></p>
<p>“Why do you sound nervous?”</p>
<p>“I’m not. You interrupted my music so I’m still adjusting to being back in the real world.”</p>
<p>
  <em>No, he is not nervous. Of course not.</em>
</p>
<p>“Oh, sorry.” He shouldn’t have called. “What were you listening to?”</p>
<p>“Heat Waves, I really like it.”</p>
<p>It’s the song he had sent him. His heart flutters in his chest.</p>
<p>“Nice, me too. Though I do think you enjoying it while being a baby about your weather is ironic.”</p>
<p>“Isn’t that because you have a thing for me being sweaty?” Oh, he hates it. That bastard. A laughter erupts from his lips without him meaning too. Why does he love it?</p>
<p>They talk about the song. <em>Heatwaves</em>. George does not tell him about how he cannot put the music on anymore. He does not tell him that every lyric, every tune feels like an answer or a call. Dream does not know that he cannot listen to music without the thought of him anymore. He cannot do anything without him. Fuck, he cannot even sleep without him.</p>
<p>“I can’t stop thinking about you.”</p>
<p>Dream’s voice is low. Torturously low. George is not sure if he had heard it correct, he is not even sure if he heard it all. Maybe he imagined it. The question escapes his lips: “...What?”</p>
<p>“I said I can’t stop thinking about it too.” His mind is playing games on him. His heart continues beating. He draws a breath. Dream asks him whether he will be joining Bad’s stream soon. “No,” he says as he stretches his limbs on the cold duvet, “I don’t really feel like getting up.”</p>
<p>There is a silence. “Are... are you in bed?” Dream says slowly. What is with the hesitation in his words? What is the unease rasping off his voice?</p>
<p>“Yeah, why?” George whispers.</p>
<p>Is Dream feeling what he is feeling? Are their conversations often shift like jigsaw puzzles in his mind as well? Do the words re-arrange and edit themselves to form sentences never said, stories never told? “Nothing,” Dream says, “just... me too.”</p>
<p><em>You. Me. Bed.</em> The words hang in the empty space to become something else. George dares not think about it. “Is it still hot there?” he asks instead. He tries to imagine what the heatwave would be like, it’s hard to comprehend something like that when the evenings are still chilly here even in the midst of summer.</p>
<p>“Why don’t you just go to the beach to cool off?” he asks thinking about the seafront of his own city and how even the slightest salty breeze is enough to take the edge off.</p>
<p>“I don’t really like the beach. Remember my nightmare?” Dream chuckles.</p>
<p>“Oh, of course I do.” George curses own his insolence.</p>
<p>“Hey, look, you really don’t have to worry about all that stuff I said. I’m fine,” Dream tries to assure him but George won’t have it, “I don’t know, Dream, that’s a fairly disturbing experience to be numb to.”</p>
<p>“I know —” he halts. Once again the silence is filled with uncertainty, “But for the first time ever I... find myself wanting to return to it.”</p>
<p>This time George does not let sweet musings of what he wants to hear take over his rationality. This time he makes sure he really hears. No puzzles. This is honest. He wants to hear it. “Why?” he asks, “I thought it terrifies you.”</p>
<p>“It does.” Dream does not talk. How little they talk when there is so much to say. How timid they become when they need to be sincere.</p>
<p>George pushes. “Then why?”</p>
<p>“Because I want to see you again,” Dream says at once, the words take flight, sway and fall right at George’s feet. He observes them as one observes an alien creature. <em>Honesty</em>. Yet it is too sweet to be truthful, too hopeful to be honest. He can’t bring himself to accept them fully, “do you really mean that?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” A pause. The breeze from the open window and the numbing silence makes him quiver. “I’ve kind of realized how much I want to meet you.”</p>
<p>Dream has no idea how familiar that sentiment is to George. He knows nothing. “I... know what you mean, I felt that after I dreamt about you.”</p>
<p>Once again a pause. He cannot even hear Dream breathing on the other end of the line.</p>
<p>"Do you want to talk about it?"</p>
<p>The softness of his tone, the way he uttered each word separately, the way that he tried — really tried — to keep from offending him again, but most of all, the way that Dream is curious of him, intrigued by <em>him</em>... It unravels something in George. </p>
<p>Still, the conversation feels delicate, he treads carefully.</p>
<p>"Will you try to mess with me?" he asks with the last of his reserve. He is not quite sure if it is really Dream that he does not trust, or if it is himself that he thinks may mess everything up.</p>
<p>"No, I promise," he hears Dream's reassurance.</p>
<p>George hesitates before hoisting himself up in the bed slightly and leaning against the bedrest. He hopes that the upright posture may sheathe his voice with a certain confidence, "Alright," he begins — <em>not good enough</em>, he clears his throat. His words sound monotone as he tries hard to conceal any emotion, "I had it about three months ago, so I don't remember everything clearly. Just pieces here and there. It started with me in my car, I think, waiting alongside the curb at the airport near my house. I parked and went into the baggage reclaim — I knew I was meant to pick up someone, but I couldn't remember who — but it was completely empty. I was just standing there, until one carousel turned on, and a bright green suitcase dropped onto it. When I went to pick it up, someone else grabbed it before me."</p>
<p>He says it all at once as if rehearsed, since, despite what he had claimed, he remembers everything clearly. He remembers for he had forced himself to remember. The first day he had the dream, George woke up from his sleep almost trembling with delight. The realisation that it was all a dream did not hit him on the instant. Though he knew deep down, rationally, that none of it was real, a part of his mind held on to the conviction that it had happened. For a while it felt so real. He kept expecting to see Dream in every turn of corner, he felt his presence in every room. </p>
<p>It was only at the nightfall when it truly dawned on him that it was all a fleeting fantasy and that he was soon going to forget it. It was all in his mind. The way the closeness of Dream's body made him feel was an illusion he conjured. Once forgotten, never again would he feel that tingle in his stomach upon hearing Dream's bare voice, never again would he know how his unruly blond hair smelled as he lowered his head over George’s face, never again would he feel the weight of his arms wrapping around him, the closeness of his embrace, the way his lips felt on his skin. Once forgotten, never again would he remember how happy he was — how utterly, thoroughly, miserably happy he was —just to be near him. </p>
<p>Terror then shook his soul. He decided to re-run the dream again and again in his brain. He raced against his own mind, trying etch everything in his memory as if it were true, as if it all actually happened. After a sleepless night, he was confident he won. He could close his eyes and just let the memory of the false reality flood the shores of his vision.</p>
<p>He didn't know, however, how much the false-memory would re-appear once he had handed the reigns of this pleasure over to his mind. He kept finding himself thinking of the dream as he was cooking, as he was walking, as he was reading.</p>
<p>He does not know exactly when, but somewhere along the line, he knows: he had gladly lost control.</p>
<p>He realises that he had paused before saying the crucial part: "It was you who grabbed it. You grabbed the suitcase before me."</p>
<p>“How did you know it was me?” Dream softly asks.</p>
<p>“I just knew. You were tall, and polite.” George does not know how to tell him that he knows his features: not by their shape nor by colour nor by touch but merely by the fact that they were his.</p>
<p>He does not speak for a while. Then afraid that he might have lost him he checks: “Clay?” His name rolls of his mouth free and fresh like water.</p>
<p>Yet, the name rings in emptiness. Silence ensues and George is getting nervous. Finally, he hears Dream’s voice, “Keep going,” the words sound strangely restrained as if he was clenching his teeth.</p>
<p>“Okay,” George complies obediently “We walked around the empty terminals for a while. I don’t know why we didn’t leave. We talked the whole time, and you sounded like yourself. All close up, if that makes sense.” His voice was real and raw then, without the electrical hum.</p>
<p>He was so close and so warm. George tries to ignore the fact that it was not real, that it was just a dream. But the truth remains out there in the open, unavoidable, mocking all hope.  </p>
<p>“I was so happy to see you,” He can feel that again whenever he thinks of the dream. The warmth of their feigned reunion stills excites him even when awake. “I remember that the most, feeling so happy. At some point I told you that, and — and you hugged me.” Words are spoken by their own volition now; George lets them run. He lets Dream hear him like he is, completely yielded.</p>
<p>“Then I pulled your mask up, just a little bit. Enough to see your mouth.”</p>
<p>His mouth. Oh, his mouth. George shuffles nervously at how quick and casually he is able to fall into that enveloping, paralysing hug of desire. Just with the thought of his mouth. Not to mention, it is completely imaginary. It is an imaginary happy little mouth with imaginary pink lips curled into an imaginary wide smile which rests smugly on a soft yet bony, handsome imaginary jaw.</p>
<p>It is all an illusion. A trick of the mind.</p>
<p>What feels dangerous, however, is that the fiery excitement brewing somewhere below his waist has nothing to do with the pink curves of his lips or the edges of his jaw. The thought burns him from within only because it is <em>his</em> mouth. His mouth. He couldn't care less about what it looks like as long as it is <em>his</em>.</p>
<p>He remembers, once again, the mouth, <em>his mouth</em> drawing close to his face and his lips; putting a kiss on his forehead.</p>
<p>To this day he remembers how lonely it had felt once his lips parted his skin. Even now, he notices, how strikingly empty his skin feels without his lips. It is as if he had lost something that had always belonged to him and something he never had.</p>
<p>It felt so intimate at the time that he feels guilty not to share it with Dream. He has a right to know, he thinks. But how can he tell without making it awkward? What is he going to say?</p>
<p>He thinks this might be the only time that he can just say it and get away with it, so he speaks before he can change his mind.</p>
<p>“And you, well, you uhm—,” hesitation clogs his lungs, he breaths, “you kissed my forehead.”</p>
<p>Then, no sound. The line buzzes emptily and George wishes he could just disappear.</p>
<p>He tries to end the conversation quickly, “That was it, I woke up,” Slowly he starts regretting even mentioning the dream, “you’re never going to let me live this down.”</p>
<p>There are still no words but George can slightly hear the movement over the line. He doesn’t know what kind of response he is anticipating but his muscles tingle with tension. He hears Dream start speaking only to falter mid-sound. He hears his breathing, silent parting of his lips and finally, “What was it like?”</p>
<p>George is not sure if this sheepish curiosity is what he wanted to hear in return. Maybe he would have felt better if Dream just gave a mocking remark or a witty comeback, so he could just revert to laughing along. So he could just say ‘kidding’ and act like nothing happened. But this <em>was</em> happening. It was real.</p>
<p>“It felt safe,” George whispers, “and warm. So warm.” He relieves the feeling, only to be startled by the realization that Dream must have asked about how the dream felt, how seeing him felt, not the kiss. Why would he ever want him to describe his weird platonic kiss? Why would he be curious about how he felt about his lips? Why? The questions rain down on his mind from where a green hope blossoms, ‘<em>maybe</em>,’ he thinks; but then he swiftly shakes some sense into himself. He must have been asking about the dream.</p>
<p>“I’ll put that on the list of things to do when I meet you for the first time,” Dream says. Finally, it is something casual, there is less of that raspy tune in his voice. Finally, back to normal. George lets out a laugh in relief, “Shut up.”</p>
<p> “I’m serious.”</p>
<p>“No, you aren’t. I know you’re not actually like that.” Oh god, what did he say? What if Dream asks <em>‘like what,’</em> what will George say then, <em>‘like me?’</em></p>
<p>“You have no idea what I’m like in real life,” Dream says instead. It reminds of what he knows about Dream. What he keeps telling to himself: <em>Dream knows nothing.</em> Musing in his own secrets, George never stopped a minute to think about he knows much less. He scoffs lightly, “You’re all talk.”</p>
<p>“Oh really?” Dream says and George can hear the provocation in his voice. ‘<em>No</em>,’ he means to say, ‘<em>that wasn’t a challenge</em>.’</p>
<p>But the temptation to lure him closer wins, so he speaks with a smirk, “Yeah.”</p>
<p>He does not have time to think before he sees the Snapchat notification on the screen.</p>
<p>“Wait, what —” George staggers over his words, “what did you just send to me?”</p>
<p>He giggles on the other side. That bastard.</p>
<p>“Dream,” he opens the photo, “what—”</p>
<p>Here it is: a piece of a puzzle.</p>
<p>A jaw, a neck, wheat skin and blond hair.</p>
<p>In moments like this, he strives to carefully balance what he wants to do with what he should do.</p>
<p>He should probably speak. Calm and collected. Yet what wants moves heaven and earth to exert dominance over his body. He zooms in and out as if that could let him see more.</p>
<p>What he wants is loud and lusty. He wants to see more. He wants to dip his hand into the screen and hold his neck. He wants to look in his eyes say it likes it is: <em>‘I want.’</em></p>
<p>What he wants is honest, raw and real. What he wants scares him.</p>
<p>Here: a piece of a puzzle. George is scared to find out the whole.</p>
<p>Dream is bursting into laughter. His laugh echoes in vivid loops and embraces George’s silence. That bastard.</p>
<p>“I hate you,” George says and it is almost true. “You did the same thing to me already today.” He means the photo he sent in the stream. It was less than this, but it made him blush nonetheless.</p>
<p>The phone is on speaker. George’s eyes are locked on the photo at his hand. He keeps tapping the screen regularly to not let it be drowned in darkness.</p>
<p>“Why, are you blushing again?” Dream asks. His voice is low. George imagines how Dream’s jaw would move and how his throat would tremble with the vibrations of his words. He thinks of his own hand on his neck, the same vibrations quivering in his palm as Dream speaks low and husky. His eyes still on the photo, George tilts his head inadvertently.</p>
<p>“Do you want me to be?” He asks.</p>
<p>No response. George really does blush, red heat travels from somewhere down below all the way to his face and he burns.</p>
<p>If he burns, then he will light it all on fire.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Dream speaks, he does not sound as if he is joking, he sounds serious, “I like you better that way.”</p>
<p>It kills him. How dare he say that, how dare he use his mouth, his ever-loving, ever-warm mouth to say such devilishly cruel things? His insides tremble and he slides back onto the pillow.</p>
<p>He feels fiery desire raising in his throat and gulps it down. In his anxiousness the pause seems awfully long, so he selects one of the nonchalant comebacks from his carefully curated ‘<em>what-to-say-when-dream-teases-me-to-the-point-where-i-cannot-form-sentences-list</em>’ saying,  “You’re too much” It is nowhere near as nonchalant as he wants it to be.</p>
<p>He knows he is at the bottom of his reserve of coherent thoughts, with the last drop his ability he mutters, “I—I think I should go to bed.”</p>
<p>“It was nice talking to you,” Dream answers almost instantly.</p>
<p>“Yeah, you too,” George rushes, “whatever.”</p>
<p>He hangs up and throws the phone away. He wriggles on the bed. He shivers, this time from the heat. He knows it is just banter, he knows. He knows. He knows.</p>
<p>Hope springs like ivy entwining, gripping his limbs. Hope opens his eyes, forces him to face the fire. <em>Here</em>, it says.</p>
<p>
  <em>Here is your fire. Now burn.</em>
</p>
<p>Like Moses he listens. He is not very good with words. He never has been, and is not now, even when the fire speaks to him. He gets tongue-tied, and his words get tangled.</p>
<p>He remembers Dream’s voice, “I like you better that way.” He sounds honest, like means it. George believes him. For a moment, he believes he wants him back.</p>
<p>Hope makes him think: “He wants.”</p>
<p>
  <em>I want.</em>
</p>
<p> Hope instructs him what to do with the want, how to move with the desire. Hope makes the fantasy seem true. All he thinks of is him. And it is all real.</p>
<p>He does not sleep at all that night.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <span class="small">I do not mean to disrespect the original author in any way. However, as you might guess, this draws heavily from the original storyline and especially the dialogues. I literally wrote this in screen split with the original story open next to mine, so I highly recommend reading it first (but ofc you have) and maybe checking with it at times. Most of this would make much more sense in comparison with the original.<br/>I also do not mean to disrespect the real people in connection to the story. Tbh, they are just a reference point and nothing more.<br/>All that’s said, I hope you enjoyed! All your suggestions and criticism are more than welcome.<br/><span class="small"></span></span>
</p></blockquote></div></div>
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